


Burnout

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cliffhangers, Dark, Depressing, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Interrogation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pain, Pre-Slash, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Questioning, Rape, Rope Bondage, Sad, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Sexual Violence, Suspense, Torture, Tragedy, Trauma, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate captures Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [officerstilinskihale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/officerstilinskihale/gifts).



* * *

 

It's not like Stiles  _hasn't_  fantasized about getting rope-burn in an erotic context, because let's face it, he's a teenager and his whole  _brain_  is an erotic context, but getting tied up by a psychopathic undead super-villain in the basement of an abandoned grocery store wasn't exactly what he'd imagined. Getting tied up by delicate math geniuses with strawberry-blond hair? Sure. Or even stubbly, leather-clad werewolves with control issues? Yep.

But definitely not Kate Argent. Jesus Christ. He's going to be turned into human meatloaf.

"Look. Killing me is, like, totally pointless," Stiles says. "Torturing me is equally pointless. I don't know where Derek is."

"Don't you?" Kate's eyes are narrow. They glitter in the semi-darkness, and the smile she wears - if it can be called a smile - is mad and malicious, thin and sickle-sharp. She's unnaturally pale, which neatly confirms Stiles's pet theory that she's some sort of vampire and/or zombie that's been mysteriously resurrected. Man, with the number of mysterious resurrections in Beacon Hills, Stiles could start a new religion. Christ returned from the dead, too, didn't he? Not that Kate believes in turning the other cheek. More like flaying that cheek into a bloody mess. Eek.

"I don't." And while Stiles is technically telling the truth - Derek never  _told_  him where he went when he got that call from Cora - Stiles is still kinda obfuscating, because he has a pretty good idea of where Derek is, based on a series of logical deductions that he isn't going to share with Kate fucking Argent.

"You're a bad liar, kid," Kate says, and then steps closer to where Stiles is secured to a pillar.

Stiles only just manages not to flinch. Any distance between him and Kate is too close, to be honest. "Why're you so convinced I know where Derek is, anyway? It's not like I'm even in his pack. Hell, Isaac and Peter probably know more, since they're official Betas and everything."

"Not in his pack? Aren't you his  _mate_?" Kate sneers when she says the word, like it's an insult, and Stiles - 

Stiles gapes. "Uh," he says, and this time, he isn't hiding anything. "No, I'm not. That's not - where did you even get that from?"

"From the way he looks at you," Kate says. "What, hasn't he fucked you, yet? Are you too young for him? I must have traumatized the poor thing, deflowering him at a tender age. And now, he wants to do bad things to another child, a child just like he used to be. Oh, how he must hate himself. How he must  _agonize_  over his lust for you."

"His... lust for me," Stiles echoes, dumbly. "Derek Hale's lust for me. Derek-Hale-the-sex-god's lust for me. Right. That's absolutely believable." He shakes his head. "If you're trying to fuck with me - "

"You haven't  _seen_  me trying to 'fuck' with you, Stiles," she says, her voice honeyed, and Stiles feels a swoop of dread that makes him ill, because he must be imagining the emphasis on the word 'fuck', mustn't he?

"Whatever you do, don't touch me."

"I think I will. I think I'll screw around with Derek's mate-to-be a bit more, maybe put him in a murderous rage when he  _does_  find out, hm? Like my Daddy always told me, a distracted werewolf is a dead werewolf."

"Please, don't say ever 'Daddy' again. It grosses me out. Like you gross me out. Don't. Come. Near me." And yet all Stiles can do is struggle futilely against the ropes as Kate reaches for him, cupping his face in an ice-cold palm that clearly belongs to one of the undead. Another plus for the vampire and/or zombie theory.

"You can't stop me, pretty boy," she breathes, and Stiles literally breaks out in goosebumps, because it's so freaky and wrong and... and  _freaky_. Also, since when is he pretty?

"What're you going to do to me?"

"Leave my mark on you," she says, with a sweetness that could've been affection in another person but in her is sheer poison. "On your body  _and_  your mind. No number of kisses from Derek will heal you, even if he has the courage to try."

Kate's nails are sharp. Very, very sharp. So sharp that Stiles can feel them through his T-shirt as they rake down his chest, scraping painfully against his nipples.

Stiles shuts his eyes. He can't stop what's happening, but that doesn't mean he has to  _watch_  it. A distant part of him wonders whether it would be better if he did watch, because then he could equate the sickening quality of these touches with Kate's face, and not react the same way to anyone else's touches, in the future. If he lives long enough to experience anyone else's touches.

Derek's touches.

Oh, god.

He opens his eyes.

And looks detachedly at the swing of Kate's hair, but it doesn't hide her expression from him, doesn't hide the way she  _licks her lips_ , like she's been waiting for this, been  _wanting_  it -

No. Just, no. The thought of Kate fantasizing about how to get back at Derek and somehow deciding that raping Stiles is the way to do it is... Stiles can't even wrap his head around what it is, except that it scours him hollow.

When Kate unbuttons his jeans and takes him into her hand, he's completely soft - of course he is - but that doesn't discourage her from doing her best to make sure he isn't.

He doesn't harden all the way, not even after god knows how many minutes of Kate stroking him.

"Are you really a teenager?" she says, impatience creeping into her tone. "Derek used to be raring to go in thirty seconds flat."

"Th-that's because," Stiles grits out, wanting to kill her, "he thought you  _loved_  him."

"Ah, yes. There was that. We haven't got any illusions about me loving you, though, do we?"

"You hate me."

"That's right," she says, and leans in to whisper into his ear. "I  _hate_  you. Fragile little thing that Derek finds  _so_  interesting."

If Stiles wasn't on the verge of throwing up, he'd blink in disbelief. "Are you  _jealous_? You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Kate hisses, and digs her nails into him - grinning when Stiles chokes off a scream, renewing his struggles. "Oh, look, you've gone down again. Did I hurt you too bad? You're not bleeding, are you?"

Hot tears well out of his eyes, stupid and useless, and for a moment he despises himself for not being stronger, for not being a werewolf, for not having accepted Peter's offer of a bite, all those months ago. Stiles can still feel the lines of fire where Kate had dragged her nails across - and into? - his skin. He stares blearily down at his crotch and catches a glimpse of red. Oh, fuck. He actually is bleeding.  _But not too much_ , he thinks objectively,  _not enough. You can take this. Stop crying. Stop. Crying._

Miraculously, he does stop crying, and raises his chin in a surge of shaky - but stubborn - defiance. His brain insists that he's being foolish, that the more he stands up to her the more she'll want to break him, but he can't tolerate the thought of  _pretending_  to be broken, just to keep himself safe. It'll feel too much like being broken, already.

And he isn't broken.

He's not.

Whatever Kate sees in his face only makes her grin wider, a death-mask of a grin, and she says: "Obviously, your dick isn't doing it for you. Too much of a whore to come without being fucked, aren't you? I bet you finger yourself when you jack off. Here, let me help."

She kneels in front of him, slipping her fingers between his thighs, reaching back toward his ass. Stiles curses, but he's stuck there, unable to so much as jerk away when she breaches him, a sudden invasion of two nailed fingers that burns as much as it cuts. It's  _agonizing_ , and he has to clench his teeth to keep from shouting. If his ankles weren't bound to the pillar he'd kick Kate in the skull, but instead all he can do is take it and  _take_  it and shiver uncontrollably, going into shock, sweat slicking his body as if he's got a fever. It's the first time anyone's touched him like this, the first time anyone's been inside him, and it  _hurts_.

 _Don't cry_ , he keeps repeating to himself, like it's a mantra.  _Don't cry_.

He doesn't. He remains dry-eyed through it all. He isn't sure how he manages it, and something tells him that's making it worse, that he  _needs_  to cry, but he won't. He just won't. Not now, not ever. Not for Kate Argent. She'll never -

Never -

He stifles a pained groan when she starts licking away the blood on his... the blood where she'd injured him, and he can't even admit to himself that that's what she's doing, although he can see her do it. A revolting vertigo sweeps through him at the sight, at the gleaming flicker of her tongue, and his stomach heaves. Bile sears the back of his throat. His mind teeters on the edge of a precipice, and he has the distinct sense that if he lets it go, it'll shatter itself into more pieces than he'll ever be able to gather up again.

So he doesn't let it go - hanging onto it with a desperate terror - and when Kate seems like she's satisfied, she draws back, pulls out her fingers, and gazes up at him speculatively. "Huh. That's a nice look on you."

 _What's_  a nice look on him?

"You're even prettier when you're suffering, all flushed and trembling and humiliated by how helpless you are." She gets up, patting her jeans clean, and leans in conspiratorially. "I'll let you in on a little secret," she says in a hushed voice. "You might hate me for what I've done, but you'll hate yourself the most."

Stiles watches her dully. He's strangely weary, like he's been exerting every ounce of his mental will and is too tired to exert it anymore. His entire body aches, not just the places where she's tortured him. Tortured, not fucked. Because that was - none of that was about sex.

"Still don't want to tell me where Derek is?"

Stiles doesn't reply.

"I can do worse, you know. I can slice off your nipples and feed them to you. I can wind barbed wire around your dick. Put varying sizes of not-so-blunt objects up your ass. You think you're brave, now? Wait 'til I'm done with you. You'll be screaming yourself hoarse."

Stiles doesn't know where Derek is.  _I don't know where Derek is_ , he lies to himself, making himself believe it. If he believes it enough, he won't say it, no matter what Kate does to him.

"Then again, why waste my energy? Derek's going to be looking for you, soon enough. Might as well wait for him to get here. To find you. And then, when he's too busy seeing red to  _think_ , I'll slit his throat. You can even watch. Isn't that considerate of me? Oh, I know!" She claps her hands. "I'll set fire to the place. Let the two of you burn to ash together, like the mates you never got to be. It'll conveniently destroy any evidence, too. What do you think? Am I brilliant, or what?"

She seems to expect him to answer, and when he doesn't, she shrugs.

"Just sit tight. It'll be downright poetic, reducing another Hale Alpha to dust." With that, Kate leaves, waving at him cheerfully before closing the basement door behind her.

Stiles's head reels with horror. He wants to escape, wants to warn Derek, but it's too late for that. Maybe it's too late for both of them, unless Derek is either extraordinarily lucky or unusually cooperative, and brings his Betas with him. If Peter and Isaac and Cora are with him, it'll be fine. If even  _one_  other werewolf is with him, it'll be fine.

Stiles tells himself that, over and over, as the minutes tick away.

 

* * *

**fin.**


End file.
